


Permanent

by knockoutmouse



Series: Reunion [2]
Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Disabled Character, Coffee, Developing Friendships, Fiona is autistic here too maybe idk?, Friendship, Headcanon: Henchperson is autistic, Henchperson is called Rory, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage Proposal, Meeting the Parents, Nonbinary Character, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Self-Harm, Trans Fernald, Trans Male Character, Wedding Planning, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-04-11 14:25:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19111513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knockoutmouse/pseuds/knockoutmouse
Summary: Post-canon. Rory meets Fernald's family.Sequel to Reunion.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JCMorrigan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCMorrigan/gifts).



> From the prompt: "Post-series, something in which Rory gets to know Captain Widdershins and Fiona a little better, particularly befriending Fiona - kind of leaning towards them basically accepting that Rory is gonna be a permanent part of the family now."

Fernald led the way toward the main room of the _Queequeg_. He turned, waiting for Rory to catch up. They trailed behind him, gazing at the foreboding metal walls and dark wood paneling in curiosity and, he suspected, a little bit of apprehension. 

“Is everything all right?” asked Fernald. 

Rory nodded. “I’ve never been on a submarine before.”

That wasn’t what he’d been worried about, and he didn’t think it was what they were worried about, either. 

“Ready?” he asked. 

They nodded again, not looking ready at all. 

Fernald slipped his arm through theirs, and together, the two of them stepped into the main room. Fiona and Captain Widdershins rose in greeting from their seats at the large table that took up most of the room. 

Rory gripped Fernald’s arm tighter and didn’t make a sound. 

“My sister, Fiona,” Fernald said, “and our stepfather, Captain Widdershins.” To his family, he added, “This is is Rory, my--” Fernald paused. He’d never actually asked what term they preferred to define the relationship between the two of them. _Friend_ didn’t begin to cover it. _Partner_ might have been all right, but Fernald had always disliked that label--somehow, it always put him in mind of cowboys. 

These thoughts all flashed through his mind in an instant, and he recovered quickly, saying simply, “We’re together.”

Fiona stepped forward to shake hands with Rory, giving them a serious, appraising look. “I’m glad to finally meet you.”

“Pleased to meet you! Aye!” Captain Widdershins clapped Fernald on the back in what he supposed was a gesture of congratulations--perhaps for finally bringing someone home to meet the family-- and to his relief, settled for greeting Rory with a too-vigorous handshake instead.

“Nice to meet you,” echoed Rory. 

“You look like you’re freezing,” said Fiona sympathetically. “Did my brother keep you waiting long?”

“No, not long,” said Rory, too quickly. “But it was a little cold out,” they admitted. 

Fernald frowned and touched their wrist, giving the slightest nudge upward, and they let him lift their hand to rest against his cheek. “You _are_ freezing,” he said guiltily. They must have been out there a long time--and he was a terrible boyfriend, because he hadn’t even noticed. “I’m sorry, love, I didn’t realize.”

“It isn’t your fault,” murmured Rory. “It’s not like you control the weather.”

“We’ll have some tea,” said Fiona decisively. “I already put on the kettle while we were waiting.”

“Good thinking!” boomed Captain Widdershins. “Aye!”

“Aye!” agreed Fiona. “She who hesitates is lost!”

“Aye! Or he!” added the captain.

Fernald fought the urge to roll his eyes as Fiona left the room in the direction of the galley.

“Have a seat!” urged the captain. Fernald couldn’t quite stop thinking of him by his title, even though they were related--more or less. 

Hesitantly, Rory sank into a seat at the heavy oak table, and Fernald followed suit. He watched them look around the room, taking in the navigational instruments and shelves of books. 

Finally, Rory spoke. “You have a lovely...submarine.” 

There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence, during which Fernald had the distinct impression that Rory was silently wishing they could fade into invisibility, then Captain Widdershins gravely responded, “Thank you.”

Mercifully, Fiona returned at that moment to give out steaming cups of tea. 

“Thanks,” said Fernald.

“Yes, thank you,” said Rory, and gratefully took a drink. 

“So you’re an actor too?” asked Fiona. 

“Yes.”

Fernald recognized Rory’s expression as an attempt at a polite smile, but to the untrained eye, they simply looked deeply uncomfortable.

“Fiona is a mycologist,” said Fernald quickly, hoping to stave off another lapse in conversation. 

“Oh! Yes,” said Fiona, brightening up. “Do you like fungi?”

“I’ve never thought about it before,” said Rory. 

“Why don’t you tell them a little about it?” prompted Fernald, and that was all the encouragement Fiona needed to launch into a lecture on her pet subject. Fernald breathed a sigh of relief, and Captain Widdershins quickly excused himself to the engine room. 

As Fiona talked, Rory finally seemed to relax, and before long, they were listening in rapt attention, not even fidgeting with their empty teacup. 

“And that’s how you determine the taxonomic classification of a lichen,” Fiona concluded. 

“I didn’t know that,” said Rory, and went on, hesitantly, “You probably know all about it already, but I read this really interesting article once about coffee leaf rust?”

Fiona flipped open her commonplace book and turned to a fresh page. “What’s that?”

“It’s a disease that affects coffee plants by damaging the leaves, but actually it’s a fungus. I forget the scientific name,” they added apologetically.

“I’ll have to look that one up,” said Fiona, hurriedly scribbling notes. 

“Forgive me for interrupting,” said Fernald, “but I thought I might show them around the rest of the _Queequeq_ now.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Fiona vaguely, still writing in her commonplace book.

Fernald rose from the table, and Rory followed him out of the room and down the corridor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mild self harm
> 
> This was supposed to be fluffy, but like, Fernald gets really down on himself this chapter

“That door leads to the galley,” said Fernald, “and, er, that one’s the storeroom.” The corridor was really too narrow for two adults to stand side by side, yet he and Rory had tried it anyway. Now Fernald couldn’t focus on anything besides their proximity. He was all too aware of the time they’d spent apart, how long it had been since--

“Yes?” said Rory politely. 

Fernald wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Of course, he was supposed to be showing them around, not just standing there pointing at doors. “And this one goes to--” God, he needed them closer, even though they were pressed together shoulder to shoulder in the confined space. He needed to kiss them again, needed to--

They were looking at him in concern now, and he wrenched his thoughts back into focus. 

“To the engine room,” he finished. Was he imagining it, or had it become very warm here in the hallway?

“What about that one?” Rory pointed to the door behind Fernald. 

“Oh, that? That’s the barracks. So, my room, sort of.” He pushed open the door and beckoned Rory to follow. The room was dim, lit only by an eerie green light. 

Fernald hurriedly made his way to the other side of the room, putting distance between himself and Rory. Yes, that was better--a little space would help him clear his head. He took a seat on his bunk--the bed where he’d slept for the past few weeks, lying alone in the darkness as the _Queequeg_ carried him back to the city far too slowly. 

He took a few breaths, willing his heartbeat to slow, and remembered his real reason for suggesting the tour.

“To tell you the truth, there’s not a whole lot to see on a submarine,” he admitted, “but I thought you might like to go somewhere quieter for a bit.” And he’d wanted them to himself for a little while, but that was secondary. It hadn’t been lost on him how visibly they’d relaxed the minute he’d closed the barracks door behind them. 

Rory joined Fernald on the bed, reaching out as if to smooth the rumpled edges of the blanket, but withdrawing their hand as soon as their fingertips made contact with the rough wool. “That’s very considerate of you.”

Fernald slid one arm around their waist and pulled them closer. “I don’t feel like I’m considerate at all. I didn’t even notice how cold it was outside, or think about how long you’d been out there--”

“Shh,” said Rory. “Tell me one thing: what were you thinking about instead?”

Fernald considered, but shook his head, drawing a blank. “I don’t know. I suppose I wasn’t really thinking at all. I was just happy to see you again.”

“Exactly,” they said. “And I felt the same. I won’t lie--I was freezing out there. But the second I saw you again, it was worth it.”

Rory kissed him. Fernald closed his eyes and lost himself in their closeness, in the warmth of their body against his as he held them in his arms. It had been too long since they’d been able to do this, the past few weeks filled with too much uncertainty. 

Fernald buried his face against their neck. Their soft skin, the faint floral scent of their perfume--so much for thinking clearly. He kissed them, traced his tongue along their throat, seeking their pulse. Rory gasped and clutched at his shirt, so Fernald did it again. He lowered them back onto the bed, moved atop them, his knee between their thighs. 

Then, to his surprise, they placed a hand against his chest, stopping him. “No.”

He sat back up at once. “Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

“It’s okay.” Rory stayed where they were. They gave a sigh, stretched out on the bed, and hugged Fernald’s pillow to their chest. “I want it, too. It’s just--I can’t, not with your family practically in the next room. I’d be too freaked out, thinking they’d hear us.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Fernald. “You’re right, we shouldn’t do this here. I was getting ahead of myself.”

He was struck by another pang of guilt--his second screw-up of the day. He knew Rory wasn’t counting, but he was. Of course they couldn’t sleep together in the barracks of the _Queequeg_. It wasn’t even his own room, but a space he shared with his sister. 

“I do want to," they reassured him, "just not here. Anywhere else, I’d be like...ninety-five percent into it.”

Fernald frowned. “Only ninety-five?”

Rory shrugged. “The sailor suit isn’t really doing it for me.”

“Noted.” Fernald had thought the crew’s uniforms were rather stylish. 

“But I was thinking maybe later--” Rory broke off as the door opened. 

“There you are!” Fiona stepped into the room, and Rory sat up quickly, scooting away from Fernald. 

“Fiona,” said Fernald in surprise. “I was just--just showing Rory the…” He looked around, trying to come up with an acceptable response. 

“Beds?” supplied Fiona. Her eyebrows rose above her triangular glasses. “I wouldn’t have thought they needed you to provide a demonstration.”

“Fiona!” hissed Fernald in reproach. Next to him, Rory stared down at the floor, a blush staining their cheeks. 

Fiona flashed him a knowing smirk. “I wasn’t criticizing. He who hesi--”

“ _Not the time_ ,” admonished Fernald. “You’ve made your point. And besides,” he added, trying to compose himself, “we were just talking.”

“All right. I actually came to find you because Stepfather wants to know--” She broke off, her eyes widening in dismay. “Oh, don’t.”

Fernald had no idea what she was talking about until Fiona dropped down to crouch next to the low bed. She placed her hand over Rory’s, stopping them from digging their fingernails into their skin. The backs of their hands were already marred with the crescent-shaped indentations of their nails, skin streaked pink with scratches. 

For a moment, Fernald was numb with shock. He’d been right next to them and hadn’t even _noticed_ what they were doing.

“Don’t, please,” said Fiona. “I was only joking, I didn’t mean--I’m sorry.”

When Rory didn’t respond, Fiona looked helplessly up at Fernald, on the verge of tears. “Fernald, I didn’t mean it, really.”

“I know, Fiona,” said Fernald heavily. He had to fix this somehow. He knew if he were any good as a boyfriend or partner or whatever he was to them--and once again the lack of a label filled him with anxiety--things wouldn’t have escalated to this point. He’d have had a ready explanation for Fiona, instead of seeming startled and guilty and putting Rory in a situation that had clearly embarrassed them. Worst of all, he definitely wouldn’t have tried to pressure them into sex in the first place. Soon they’d realize just how inadequate he was, and would leave him. 

Fernald caught his sister’s eye. “Could you give us a few minutes?” he asked gently. 

She sniffled. “Yes, but--”

“Everything’s going to be all right,” he promised, not at all sure it was true.

Fiona nodded, made her way out of the room, and shut the door behind her, leaving the two of them alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mild self harm

Fernald didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t believe he’d failed so badly as to let things reach this point. He couldn’t believe he’d been literally-not-figuratively sitting right next to Rory and completely oblivious to their distress. God, he was totally worthless in a relationship.

“This was a complete disaster,” said Rory, their voice hollow and defeated. They didn’t even look at him.

“I know.” It hurt Fernald to say, but it was true. So this was it. They were done with him. 

Rory stared down at the floor. “I never should have come here.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Fernald knew they were making the right choice. He shouldn’t say anything else, should accept their decision with grace instead of trying to change their mind, but he couldn’t hold back his next words. His voice was choked when he finally managed to speak. “Is there any way I can convince you to give me a second chance?”

They looked up at him then, startled. “Wait, what?”

Fernald took a deep breath. At least they were willing to hear him out. “I know I’ve done a terrible job of showing it today, but I truly do care about you, and I’m sorry. I love you, but--I understand if me saying so isn’t enough.”

Rory tilted their head to one side, still staring at him in incomprehension. “Wait, so...you’re _not_ breaking up with me?”

“You’re not breaking up with _me_?” said Fernald, equally astonished. 

“No, of course not,” they said. “Why would I?”

“I thought for sure--why did you think so?” asked Fernald at the same time. “I made you wait on me forever--”

“I couldn’t even meet your family without being super awkward--”

“--and I tried to pressure you into sleeping with me--”

“--I told you no--”

“--and then I panicked and gave my sister the wrong idea--”

“--and she totally thought we were having sex--”

“--and now you’re hurting yourself and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“--I just wanted her to like me but I made her cry.”

There was a brief pause, then Rory asked uncertainly, “Are you mad?”

“Mad?” echoed Fernald. “Sweetheart, no, of course not. Come here?”

Cautiously, Rory moved closer, and Fernald took them into his arms, holding them close. They leaned limply against him, as if completely exhausted.

“I love you,” said Fernald, “and it worries me to see you hurt yourself like that.”

“Like--?” They sounded genuinely confused, then understanding seemed to dawn on them. “You don’t mean this?” They held up their hands, the scratches on their skin raised and red. 

Fernald nodded. 

“No, it’s not like that. I was panicking a little and just trying to calm down.”

Fernald stared. He couldn’t imagine how pain could be calming. “That’s--that’s--”

“Weird and probably pretty fucked up,” Rory filled in. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

“No, that’s not what I mean,” said Fernald quickly. “I’m just not sure I understand.”

Rory picked up the pillow from Fernald’s bed and held it in their lap, tracing the seams of the pillowcase. “I’m not sure how to explain. It’s like...um...imagine there’s something happening to you that hurts really bad, and maybe it isn’t even physical, and you can’t do anything to stop it. But if you do something else that only hurts a little, you can focus on that instead of the really bad thing, and you know you could make the second thing stop if you wanted, so it feels a little more like being in control." They ran a hand over the pillowcase, smoothing out the wrinkles. "I know it isn’t really a good way of coping,” they admitted, “but it was the best I could do at the time. And it isn’t your fault, or your responsibility.” 

Fernald held Rory closer, their back to his chest, and rested his chin on their shoulder. “I think I get it--at least as much as I can.” He gently took their hand between both hooks, raised it to his lips, and tenderly kissed the red marks on their skin.

“It really doesn’t hurt,” they protested, but that didn’t stop him repeating the process with their other hand. He needed to provide them some tangible gesture of comfort, even if it was stupid and chilidish and--

“Thank you,” said Rory softly, and Fernald’s doubts vanished. Their expression clouded again. “Is that why you thought I was going to leave you?”

“That’s one reason,” said Fernald.

Rory leaned back to rest their head against Fernald’s shoulder, and looked up at him. “You haven’t done anything wrong. You know that, don’t you?”

“It’s nice of you to say so, but the truth is that I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” said Fernald. Maybe not as numerous or as severe as he’d thought initially, but mistakes nonetheless. “I didn’t stop to think how worried you must have been while I was gone, unless I’m just flattering myself there--”

“Of course I was worried about you,” said Rory. “But you promised you’d find me, and you did. It’s all right now.”

“It took me longer than I expected to get away from Olaf and track you down again,” he explained. “I was worried about you, too, but at least I knew you were out of danger. And I was so excited for you to meet my family, I never considered whether you’d even want to, or how overwhelming it might be.”

Rory turned to face Fernald and rested their hands on his forearms. “Babe, there’s nothing to forgive. Honestly, I’m really touched that you wanted me to meet them at all, even though I wish I could have made a better impression. All that matters is that you’re safe, and we’re together again.”

Fernald began, finally, to relax. Things were okay. He hadn’t thoughtlessly destroyed the most important relationship in his life after all. But as he mentally ran through the reasons Rory had listed off for thinking he’d leave them, one leapt out at him that he had to address. 

“One more thing,” he said. “Earlier, I absolutely wasn’t upset when you told me no. I got carried away, and even if I hadn’t, you had every right. I’ll never be angry about something like that, so get that idea out of your head for good, all right?”

Rory nodded. “Okay. As long as you understand you didn’t actually do anything inappropriate. Maybe it wasn’t the best time and place, but there was nothing _wrong_ with it.”

“You’re sure?”

They leaned in close, cupping his face in both hands. “Fernald, listen to me. You’ve never been anything but respectful and caring when we’ve had sex, and I want to make sure you know that in case I’ve never said so. It--it means a lot to me.”

They concluded the statement by kissing him. Fernald’s heart was warmed by their unexpected words, and the kiss was definitely reassuring, too.

“Feeling better now?” asked Rory. 

“I am. What about you?”

“Yeah. I’m okay. Do you mind if I talk to your sister? I was a little bit out of it when she tried to apologize before.” They shifted uneasily. “I don’t want her to hate me.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t.” Fernald rose from the bed. “Come on, let’s go find her.”


	4. Chapter 4

Fernald led the way back to the main room. Fiona stood at once, abandoning the books and charts spread out before her on the table, and marched over to the two of them, deadly serious. 

“I apologize.”

“Fiona, it’s all right,” said Fernald, but before he’d even finished speaking, she turned from him to Rory. 

“I really was just teasing my brother,” she told them, “but I realize we don’t know each other very well, so I shouldn’t have said what I did.” 

“It’s okay,” said Rory, but Fiona shook her head. 

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and I definitely didn’t mean to make you…” She trailed off, and nodded down at the fading scratches on their hands. 

“Hey, let’s be clear on this,” they said. “You didn’t _make_ me do anything.” When Fiona looked unconvinced, they went on, “I was stressing out about a lot of things, and maybe I didn’t handle it in the best way, but you’re not to blame. Do you understand?”

Fiona nodded, and to Fernald’s surprise, the severe set of her mouth began to waver. “Yes. And I realize--sometimes the way I mean to say something doesn’t match up with the way it sounds to other people, but--I just want us to be friends.” 

“Me too,” said Rory quietly, and Fernald was astonished when his normally undemonstrative sister hugged them, and even more astonished when they not only let her, but actually hugged her back. 

 

A short time later, Fernald had changed from his sailor suit-- _uniform_ , he corrected himself, no matter what Rory had called it--and the _Queequeg_ returned them both to shore. The sky was overcast, a soft blank gray that blocked out the afternoon sun. 

“I like your sister,” remarked Rory as the two of them made their way up Briny Beach toward the city. 

“I’m glad,” he said. “I think the two of you have a lot in common.” 

“I’m not, like, taking you away from your family, am I?”

“It’s all right,” said Fernald. “Even though we were only recently reunited, I _have_ spent the past three weeks on a submarine with them. There’s only so much closeness I can take. And you--I missed you.” He didn’t quite know how to express the feelings he’d been having since the two of them had been apart. He cared about his sister and their stepfather, of course, and had only begun to fully realize how much he’d missed them when he’d taken it upon himself to look after Sunny Baudelaire. Although he’d never wanted children of his own, he’d started to think of Sunny as a much younger sister, and that had opened the door for him to consider seeking out Fiona again, although the way he’d found her hadn’t been exactly what he’d planned. But the nature of his feelings for Rory was different, somehow, although he couldn’t fully articulate it.

Fernald paused for a moment, but when Rory turned to him questioningly, he still couldn’t find the proper words for what he wanted to say, so he kissed them instead. 

Afterwards, the two walked along in silence. The air was cool; the clouds darkened, threatening rain. Fernald didn’t know what came next, but for a moment, it was enough, simply being there together on land, in the open air, free to show affection for each other without hiding it the way they’d had to around Count Olaf. 

They crossed over the tracks of the end-of-the-line trolley stop and into the narrow, winding streets of the city. 

“What happens now?” asked Fernald.

“You come home with me and stay there until you feel like leaving again,” Rory answered. “That’s what happens.”

Fernald stopped again. “I meant what I said this morning,” he said seriously. “Leaving again is off the table, unless you tell me to get out.”

“Trust me, that’s not happening.” Rory took a step nearer as if to kiss him again, but became distracted by something over his shoulder. 

“What is it?”

“Are you by any chance hungry?” they asked. 

“Actually, yes.” Fernald hadn’t realized it until then, but he hadn’t eaten since early that morning.

“Good, because I’m totally starving. How about this place?” 

Fernald turned; he almost wanted to suggest that they go home and order in--after all, he hadn’t _entirely_ forgotten how badly he wanted to express his affection in ways that were wholly inappropriate for public display. However, the sight of the small noodle shop across the street tempted him, and he nodded in agreement. 

Inside, the two of them, by long-held habit, found the most secluded table in the back of the restaurant--away from the curious gazes of would-be onlookers. At the moment, they were the only customers, but Fernald still welcomed the illusion of privacy. 

After they ordered, the elderly proprietor brought a pot of tea, and Rory poured a cup for each of them. 

“I’ve missed this, too,” said Fernald. “Just doing normal things like this.” 

“It’s been a while,” agreed Rory. “Things got a little out of control ever since…”

“Since the Baudelaires showed up,” finished Fernald. He realized Rory didn’t know anything that had happened since the rest of the troupe had left, and suddenly, he needed to talk about it. Hurriedly, stumbling over his words, he began to recount the events, starting with Sunny Baudelaire’s escape from her cage on top of Mount Fraught. He told them everything that followed, concluded with the reappearance of Captain Widdershins, and took a drink of his tea, only to find that it had gone cold. 

Rory had stayed silent while Fernald spoke, but now they grasped his arm tightly. “Olaf--I can’t believe--you could have died,” they said, a bit incoherently. 

“It’s all right, love. I didn’t. I’m here now.”

They didn’t look satisfied with that response, but at that moment, the shop owner returned to the table with their food, and the next several minutes were devoted to consuming noodles. That gave Fernald time to think, and again he returned to the question that had been plaguing him since that morning. 

He set down his fork, or rather, started to set it down, but dropped it, causing it to clatter too loudly against his bowl. “There’s something I’ve been wondering about,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“What do we call each other?” When faced with Rory’s look of absolute incomprehension, Fernald realized he could have phrased the question better. “I mean, what word would you use to describe our relationship?”

“I’m not sure I get what you’re asking,” they said slowly.

“For example, if you were explaining to someone how we knew each other, you might say that I was your, er, boyfriend, yes?” Somehow, even asking that question made him a little embarrassed, though he didn’t understand why. Perhaps it was the strangeness of finally having this conversation only now, years after the two of them had first shared a kiss one night in the highest room in the tower of Olaf’s mansion.

“Oh!” said Rory. “Yeah, probably. That’s what I told my sister,” they added, absently swirling their chopsticks through the remainder of the broth in their bowl. “Is that okay?”

“You told your sister about me?” Fernald asked in pleased surprise. “I mean, yes, of course. I suppose,” he added apologetically, “it’s a bit ridiculous that we’ve been together so long without the question coming up.”

“Who did we ever have to tell?” countered Rory. “Mostly we were trying to...well, not, like, keep things secret exactly, but...you know.”

Fernald did know. They _had_ tried to keep their relationship a secret at work, for fear of Olaf’s reaction, and neither had, until recently, been particularly close with their family. Anyone else the two of them had associated with had figured things out sooner or later anyway. It had been unspoken, an open secret, and both of them had been content with that--at least until the last night at Heimlich Hospital. That night had changed things, somehow. That shift had been unspoken too, the look that had passed between them in the harsh light of the flames, the fear and desperation when they’d made love late that night after arriving at Caligari Carnival--

Yes. That night had changed things, and it had made their subsequent separation all the more painful.

“That still leaves the question of what I should call you,” said Fernald. “What do you think? I know _girlfriend_ isn’t exactly right, _boyfriend_ definitely isn’t right... _partner_ , maybe, but it sounds so…” He gestured vaguely, unable to satisfactorily explain why he disliked the sound of it.

Rory gazed down at their bowl in contemplation, still toying with their chopsticks, and then looked up at him suddenly, with a startling earnestness. “Or maybe...if you were really serious about not leaving again...what about _fiancée_?” Even as Rory spoke the word, they seemed almost shocked that they’d said it.

The world suddenly slowed down, the sounds of the restaurant muted. “Fiancée,” Fernald repeated. “Are you--you’re asking--?”

Rory seemed to get over their initial panic, and nodded. “Yeah. I hadn’t, like, planned for this, so I’m sorry the circumstances aren’t very romantic, but...will you marry me?”


	5. Chapter 5

“Yes,” said Fernald immediately. “Yes, absolutely.” 

“Cool,” said Rory, and broke into a smile. “I can ask you again properly later on, if you want,” they added quickly.

“No, of course not. I’ll take sincerity over a grand gesture any day.” Being proposed to spontaneously over noodles was the last thing he’d expected today, but somehow, it felt fitting, and no elaborate plan could match up to that. 

Fernald had always expected that he’d be the one to ask, although now that he thought about it, he wondered why he _hadn’t_ asked them already. It wasn’t that the thought had never crossed his mind, but mostly the idea had existed in a rather nebulous form, and tended to get shoved aside by other, more immediate concerns, such as _evading the authorities_ and _fleeing the scene of the crime_ and _not being murdered by Count Olaf_. 

“So I have a fiancée now,” he said experimentally, and nodded in approval. He liked the sound of that. It felt more permanent, held the promise of stability, of a future. 

“Of course, I don’t know whether I’d write it with the feminine or masculine spelling,” Rory confided, “but at least it sounds the same when you say it out loud.”

“Another advantage,” agreed Fernald. “Although I am curious,” he admitted, “what _should_ I have been calling you up to now?”

“I don’t know,” they said, and their smile faded. “Um...actually, to tell you the truth, nobody’s ever asked me before.”

“They haven’t?” he asked, puzzled. “Why not?”

For a moment, it was clear from Rory’s expression that Fernald had asked a naive question, though he didn’t understand why. 

“I love you,” they said quietly. “I love that you don’t know the answer to that because it would genuinely never occur to you.”

He shook his head, completely lost. “I love you too, but I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Rory shrugged. “It’s not like I’ve been with that many people, and the ones I have--they weren’t exactly eager to advertise it, you know?”

Fernald must have looked as shocked as he felt, because they quickly reassured him, “It doesn’t matter now. It’s in the past. And besides,” they added, brightening up, “I’m with you now.”

He didn’t know how to explain that he felt it did matter a great deal. He’d never asked either, until now. What sort of message had that sent? And somehow, they’d still given him the benefit of the doubt, had, apparently, believed in him--believed in him enough to want to marry him, and that realization took his breath away.

He wanted to say all of that, but right now, he didn’t know how, so what he did say was, “Let’s go home.”

 

As they walked along the cobblestone streets, Fernald kept one arm around Rory’s waist. He needed to be close to them, as if to convince himself that it was all real. They were back together again, for good this time. 

There were so many things they needed to do. He’d have to telegraph the _Queequeg_ to let his family know the news, and set a date, and find a judge, and--

“I need to get you a ring,” he said aloud as they passed a jeweler’s shop. He stopped to take in the window display, a glittering array of gemstones and precious metals.

“You really don’t,” protested Rory. “That’s just buying into the propaganda of the capitalist wedding industry, which is in bed with the highly unethical diamond trade, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Right,” said Fernald, tearing his gaze away from the window. The sheer variety of merchandise was overwhelming, but for just an instant, he saw the beauty of the light glinting off the jewels and understood the stories he’d read of people stealing and killing and going on quests to possess such things. “Right. Of course you needn’t wear a ring if you don’t want one.”

“Oh, no, I totally want one,” said Rory. “I’m just saying there’s no obligation. But no diamonds, okay?”

“Certainly not,” he agreed, feeling a bit out of his depth and both hoping and expecting that they’d continue and explain, in detail, precisely why diamonds were morally objectionable.

What actually happened was that Rory wrapped an arm around his shoulders, leaned in close, and kissed him. “I’m going to get you a ring, too,” they told him. “Or something. We’ll figure it out.”

Fernald glanced toward the shop door. “We could go look now, if you’d like.”

“Not now,” they said, giving him a significant look. “I had some...other things in mind for right now.”

Fernald understood _exactly_ what they meant.


	6. Chapter 6

As soon as the apartment door fell shut behind them, Rory and Fernald were already on their way to the bedroom, although they were considerably delayed by all the times they stopped along the way to kiss one another desperately. Fernald had missed this--missed them. He had the vague idea that he ought to tell them so, but that would require him to take his mouth from theirs, and frankly, with the way they were kissing him right now, that was not going to happen.

Finally, the two of them broke apart, if only for the sake of efficiency in removing clothing. 

“You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to this,” said Fernald, hurriedly stripping off his pants.

“Tell me,” said Rory as they unbuttoned their shirt. 

“I thought about this, about you, every night,” he confessed. “All the things I want to do to you.”

They suddenly seemed to have trouble with their buttons, and exhaled a shaky breath. “Did you--did you do anything about it?”

Fernald shook his head. “I didn’t really have the time, or the privacy.”

Rory let their shirt slip off their shoulders, let it dangle from their fingertips for a moment before they dropped it to the floor. When they looked up at him, their eyes were intense, alight with desire. “So you haven’t gotten off since--”

“Since the last time I was with you,” he agreed. “That night, after--” He couldn’t bring himself to say it, not right now. “That night at the carnival.”

For a moment, the two of them stood, fully naked, simply taking in the sight of one another. In the back of his mind, Fernald knew he never could have done that with anyone else--he almost hadn’t been able to do it with them in the beginning. 

The first time they’d been together, he’d moved to turn out the lights before Rory had placed a gently restraining hand over his hook and told him they wanted to see him. And when he’d said he couldn’t, admitted he was too embarrassed, and they wouldn’t like what they saw, they’d told him not to be ashamed. They'd told him it had taken them a long time to stop feeling that way, and they didn’t want him to feel it, either. But, they’d said, he could turn off the lights if he really wanted. And so, despite his fear, despite every instinct telling him to hide in the darkness, he’d stepped away from the light switch. 

When he’d undressed, their hands had skimmed over his skin softly, reassuring, comforting. They’d touched and kissed his body in a way that felt almost reverent, not shying away from any of his scars, whether neat surgical lines or jagged lacerations. They’d looked at him as if he were desirable, as if they wanted him, and gradually it sank in that they were looking at him that way _because it was true_.

They were looking at him that way right now. 

Rory pulled Fernald down onto the bed, and he kissed them greedily. Moving lower, they kissed his throat, biting down. He groaned in pleasure. God, he’d needed this. 

“Touch me,” he begged.

That was all the invitation they needed. As Rory kissed him again, it felt as if they were touching him everywhere at once, somehow desperate and gentle at the same time, half-consciously tracing over his scars. When one hand found its way between his legs, Fernald arched up into their touch with a growl. 

“Fuck--please--I need you.”

“Stand up.”

He made a sound of protest, raising his hips higher, seeking their touch, but they’d taken away their hand, and he had no choice but to do as they asked. 

He rose from the bed, feeling suddenly, irrationally exposed. Rory stood, facing him for a moment--then they dropped to their knees, and he almost forgot to breathe. They pushed his legs further apart, slowly but insistently, and he sought desperately for something to focus on besides the anticipation, besides the sight of his--his _fiancėe_ kneeling naked before him. The way his toes sank into the plush carpet, for example, or the faint sound of the rain on the other side of the window, or--

“I’ve wanted to do this, like, _forever_ ,” said Rory looking up at him earnestly. They shifted forward, stroking his thighs as they began to lick and suck his clit. 

Fuck. _Fuck_. He’d fantasized about this for weeks, and now his body was responding all too quickly. He tried to shift his position, to take a step back, hoping to prevent himself from coming so soon, but Rory grabbed him by the hips, holding him in place. He couldn’t hold back any longer, and surrendered with a cry, shuddering hard--and Rory _kept going_ , and it felt like his orgasm went on and on. Finally, it began to subside, and he gently pushed them away. When they released him, he let himself collapse onto the bed. 

It took him a moment before he could speak. “I didn’t--I wanted--”

“Don’t worry,” Rory told him. “That’s just to start with.”

“I hope that means you’re going to fuck me now?”

The pressure of their erection against his hip answered that question. 

“How do you want to do this?” they asked. 

It took him a moment to answer, because they were languidly running a hand down his chest, lower and lower, and this was not a sensation conducive to coherent thought. “I--I want it in my ass,” he managed. 

Fernald was disappointed when Rory moved away, but it was only to retrieve lube, and soon they were back, grasping his ass, slick fingers stroking, gradually penetrating him. There was no discomfort--in fact, he needed more.

“Lie down,” he ordered. “I’m going to ride you.”

Rory obeyed, taking a moment to thoroughly apply more lube to their cock. When their breathing hitched and they continued to give themselves a few more strokes than was strictly necessary, Fernald pushed their hand away. 

“I know it’s your turn, love, but I'm here now. I can help with that.”

They could only nod as he lowered himself onto them and began to move. In this position, he could look down at them, could watch as they closed their eyes and sank back onto the pillow and let him be completely in control. 

He kept a deliberately slow pace. Unlike him, Rory had had plenty of time on their own to take care of their needs. He was going to make them work for this. 

“Harder.”

“What’s that?” teased Fernald, drawing out his motions even further, sinking down on their cock with agonizing slowness--agonizing for them, at least--and making them gasp. 

“Fuck me harder,” they pleaded, and he obliged. Before long, they began to thrust up into him, shallow, half-arrested motions that meant their resolve was beginning to break.

Fernald had a sudden, delightfully evil idea that went along perfectly with his plan. “Can we try something?”

“Go for it.”

He leaned down, kissed their neck, traced along the outer edge of their ear with his tongue, and then ordered in a harsh whisper, “Ask me permission.”

He was rewarded by their moan, by their brief shudder beneath him.

“Please,” they breathed. 

“Please what?” he prompted, and began to move at a brutally fast pace again, knowing how close they were, how much they’d try to resist until he granted permission. 

“Please-- _fuck_ \--please, may I come now?”

“No.”

They gave a whimper of frustrated disbelief, and he could feel their muscles tensing with effort. A moment later, they asked again. “Please?”

“Not yet.”

“I can’t--I can’t take it.”

“Try,” he said. 

Rory was squirming underneath him, fingers twisting into the bedsheets. They cried out wordlessly, beyond the point of comprehensible speech. 

“Now,” ordered Fernald. 

Rory threw their head back, arching up off the bed, shuddering hard as they came. When Fernald lay down next to them, they were still staring at the ceiling.

“All right, love?” he asked after a little while.

“Yeah,” they said, still dazed. “What was that about?”

“You didn’t like it?” asked Fernald in concern. 

“No, I did,” Rory reassured him, propping themselves up on one elbow. “Nobody’s ever done that to me before, but it was....” They seemed to drift off, reliving the moment, and their expression left no doubt in his mind that they’d enjoyed the experience. 

“Good,” said Fernald. “I hope that makes up for all the time I was gone.”

“Maybe not entirely,” said Rory, “but we have all night.”


	7. Chapter 7

Before night fell, Fernald telegraphed the _Queequeg_ to let Captain Widdershins and Fiona know the news. The next morning, as he made breakfast, there was a knock at the door, which turned out to be the delivery of a telegram in response. 

Rory wandered into the room, drinking a cup of coffee, as Fernald was still reading. “What’s that?”

“It’s from my sister,” said Fernald. “She says congratulations, and…” He hesitated. “She wants to know when the wedding will be, and if we want any help organizing it.”

“Wedding,” repeated Rory, sounding almost dismayed. That wasn’t the reaction Fernald had expected, and he would have begun to worry if he hadn’t reminded himself that they’d been the one to ask him. But it all became clear when they went on, “As in, like, an actual _event_ , with people?”

So that’s what the trouble was. “Would you rather just go to the courthouse?” Fernald asked. “I’m sure Fiona will understand.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Rory admitted, “but--”

They were interrupted by the _ding_ of the kitchen timer, and Fernald hurried back to the oven to remove the quiche he’d made. Rory peered over his shoulder. 

“Then again,” they said, “I’ll do whatever you want if you keep cooking like that.”

Fernald merely grinned and opened the cupboard where the plates were kept. 

“Seriously, though, what do _you_ want to do?” asked Rory once the two of them had taken a seat at the table. 

Fernald considered. “I suppose I was thinking an actual wedding might be nice. If we kept it very small,” he added quickly. “Just our immediate families, and maybe the rest of the troupe. For me it’s only Fiona and our stepfather.”

“And I have my sister, our parents, and their girlfriend,” they said, “So along with Arturo and the twins, that’s...” They paused to do the math in their head. “Eight people.”

“I think that makes nine, love,” corrected Fernald gently. 

“It does?”

Fernald nodded. 

“Okay, nine, then.” Rory considered. “That’s not so bad, and it would be all people we know. I wouldn’t mind that.”

Something occurred to Fernald that left him puzzled. “You’ve played in front of much larger audiences before,” he said. “Is that different somehow?”

“Absolutely. That’s just pretend. If you’re acting in front of hundreds of people, being someone else, that’s way less terrifying than, say, half a dozen when you’re only _yourself_.”

Fernald considered that for a moment. He wasn’t sure if he felt the same way, but he said, truthfully, “I never thought of it like that before.” After a moment, he asked, “So what shall I tell Fiona? If we’re keeping this very small, there’s probably no need--”

“Tell her yes,” interrupted Rory, much to Fernald’s surprise. “I want to get to know your sister better, and honestly, I don’t know a lot about weddings. There’s one condition, though,” they added.

“What’s that?” asked Fernald.

“You have to handle anything involving math.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which there is no plot advancement, only coffee

The following morning, Fernald and Rory went to the shore to meet Fiona, who was to stay with them in the city for the next few days. The _Queequeg_ hadn’t yet arrived, and the two stood in silence, watching for any sign of the submarine. 

The morning was bleak, the air humid, the sky a dull gray over the choppy ocean waves. In sunlight, they would have shone like polished blue-green glass, but this morning, the water was as muted as the sky above it. 

“It’s so lonely out here,” said Fernald, turning to cast his gaze over the deserted beach.

“It’s too early,” said Rory, and yawned. “Nobody’s on the beach for fun at this time of day.”

“At least it isn’t very cold today,” said Fernald. He glanced around again. “So, seeing as we’re alone…”

The two moved closer together, and when they kissed, for a moment, the dullness of their surroundings faded away. The early hour was far more bearable if they were together like this. 

“Good morning,” said Fiona, startling them both.

“Good morning, Fiona,” Fernald greeted her. 

“Morning,” echoed Rory, and yawned again. 

“I hope I didn’t drag the two of you out of bed,” said Fiona. 

“Fiona!” said Fernald, scandalized. 

She stared at him. “From _sleeping_ ,” she said. “Because it’s so early.”

“Right,” said Fernald quickly. “Yes. Obviously.”

Fiona shook her head and turned to Rory. “Well, we know where _his_ mind’s at, don’t we?”

“Why don’t we get some coffee?” suggested Rory, trying not to laugh. That was certainly something Fernald didn’t see often, and suddenly he felt a rush of some nearly-forgotten emotion, perhaps a kind of intense happiness. His tiny, hard-won family was beginning to come together. 

 

In the cafe, Fernald was content to listen in silence, and Fiona and Rory were deep in discussion by the time the waiter brought their drinks to the table. 

“Oolong tea,” he announced, setting Fernald’s cup and saucer in front of him. “Black coffee.” He gave Rory their drink. “And one hot cocoa.”

As the waiter promptly swept away with his tray, Fiona looked a bit self-consciously at her mug topped with whipped cream and drizzled with chocolate syrup. “I suppose I should just learn to drink coffee like an adult,” she said. 

“You should drink whatever you like,” Rory told her. “And besides, plenty of adults don’t like coffee.”

“I’ve tried it a few times, but it’s just too bitter,” confessed Fiona.

“You could always add some sugar,” they suggested. When Fiona looked shocked, Rory seemed to realize their faux pas. “Right, sorry, I forgot. Not the custom.” 

To Fernald’s surprise, they refrained from mentioning their opinion that the VFD prohibition on sugar was just a silly superstition, although they’d said so to him before. It had never exactly been an argument--there would have been no point, as Fernald only drank tea, and Rory would have shuddered at the thought of taking sugar in their tea _or_ coffee, though they hadn’t grown up in VFD and it was merely personal preference.

“Perhaps I’ll get used to it eventually,” said Fiona.

Rory considered a moment, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “Let me tell you a secret. You know a mocha latte is basically just hot cocoa with espresso?”

Fiona’s eyes went wide. “Really?”

“And a latte definitely isn’t coffee, so you can totally put whatever you want in it.”

Fiona still looked completely awestruck.

“Want to try it?”

She nodded, so Rory took Fiona’s mug of cocoa to the counter and spoke with the barista, who, a moment later, poured a fresh shot of espresso into the cup, and just like that, they were back. 

“This is basically a gateway drug that might start you down the path to drinking straight espresso, so if that happens, we’ll have to have a talk about buying organic and fair trade,” they warned her, “but here you go.”

Fiona took a cautious sip of her mocha latte, and, if it was possible, her eyes went even wider. “I like this.” She took another drink, and then another.

“I think you’re corrupting my sister,” complained Fernald.

“Only a little,” said Rory. “Besides, it was inevitable. You’re the uptight one so I have to be, like, more chill. It balances out.”

“I am _not_ uptight,” protested Fernald. 

The others only looked at him. 

“Oh god, I am, aren’t I?”

“I mean…” Rory began, at the same time Fiona said, “Only a little.”

“I know, I know,” he said resignedly. “Drink your coffee.”

“Latte,” the two of them corrected him in unison, and he knew he’d brought this upon himself.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to have this chapter up sooner--sorry for the wait!

A short time later, Fiona had made two lists of tasks to be completed, one for Fernald and one for Rory. 

“It would be more efficient to split up,” she suggested. 

“Is efficiency that important?” asked Fernald. “This is a pretty small event.” 

“She who hesitates is lost!” proclaimed Fiona.

Fernald’s eyebrows went up.

“Or he,” she added, tapping his list and giving him a pointed look.

“All right, you win.” He knew Fiona probably wanted him out of the way so she and Rory could get to know each other, so he didn’t protest.

The group parted ways outside the coffee shop. Glancing down at his list once more, Fernald made his way to the nearest trolley stop.

 

“What did you put on his list?” Rory asked Fiona as the two of them made their way slowly down the street. 

“Taking care of the paperwork, getting a suit, a few other things,” said Fiona. 

Rory nodded, and tried not to think too much about the idea of Fernald wearing a suit. That brought back memories of the In Auction--and a certain moment _before_ the In Auction, which Fiona definitely didn’t need to know about. “What’s on our list?” they asked quickly. 

Fiona grinned. “We’re going shopping!”

“Oh, okay.” Rory was a little bit less enthusiastic about shopping, but they supposed it couldn’t be helped. Besides, maybe with Fiona along it wouldn’t be so bad. “Wait, what are we shopping _for_?”

“For you. You need something to wear, right?”

“Yeah, I guess,” they admitted. “But I’ve never really been good at, like, clothing?”

“That’s a funny way of saying it,” said Fiona, with a little laugh. “But that’s all right. I’m here to help, remember?” Before Rory could respond, Fiona clapped her hands together in excitement. “I’ve always wanted to have a sister to go shopping with!”

“Well, sorry you ended up with me, then,” said Rory, so caustically that Fiona stopped in her tracks. Rory stopped too. Shit. They shouldn’t have done that. It was obvious Fiona hadn’t been trying to hurt them on purpose.

For just an instant, the two of them caught each other’s eye before they both looked away. 

“I’m sorry,” said Fiona quietly. “I didn’t mean--I wasn’t thinking, and I said the wrong thing.”

“I think I did too,” said Rory. They closed their eyes for a moment, as if that would help them summon the words to make things right. “I know you were trying to say something nice and I was just being--” They paused again and sighed. “Look, I keep forgetting you’re only sixteen and--it can be hard sometimes. I understood what you were trying to say, and yeah, you didn’t get it exactly right, but I appreciate the sentiment. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“I’ll do better,” said Fiona.

“Me too.”

“Are we--are okay?” asked Fiona tentatively. 

“Yeah, of course we are,” said Rory, and this time it didn’t take them by surprise quite as much when Fiona hugged them.

By the time she let go, she seemed back in good spirits.

“The next question,” she said, as they resumed their walk past the shop windows, “is whether you want to wear a suit, or a wedding gown, or something else entirely.”

“I hadn’t thought about it very much,” Rory admitted. “I mean, I don’t really like the way the so-called traditional white wedding dress is associated with virginity, which is totally a patriarchal construct anyway, not to mention the actual origins of the white dress as a blatant display of excessive wealth, _but_ ,” and here they paused for breath. “But. Even if I did--just hypothetically--want to think about that as an option, I doubt I’d be able to find anything in my size.”

“I think you’d be surprised,” said Fiona, and decisively took hold of their arm. “Come on. I know just where to go.”

A short time later, the two of them stood outside a small bridal salon. 

“I don’t--can we really go in there?” asked Rory. On their own, the thought of venturing inside would never even have crossed their mind as a possibility. 

“Of course we can! Come on. She who hesitates is lost! Aye!”

“Or they?” asked Rory.

“Or they,” agreed Fiona, and opened the door.

Inside, mannequins on pedestals towered over them, displaying opulent gowns in various shades of white, sparkling with beads and crystals and pearls. Soft music played in the background, and enormous floor-length mirrors occupied a considerable amount of wall space. 

It was terrifying.

Rory felt like they didn’t belong there at all, and had they been alone, would have followed their initial instinct to flee. However, Fiona kept a light but firm grip on their wrist as the two of them approached the clerk at the counter. 

“Good morning,” she greeted Fiona. “Are you here to look at bridal gowns today?”

“No,” said Fiona. “They are.”

They should never have let her talk them into it. They should run away right now, before they got thrown out. They couldn’t do this, not at all, not even a little, and--

“My apologies,” said the clerk cheerfully, and turned her attention to Rory. “Was there any particular style you were looking for?”

Rory took a breath. That--wasn’t so bad. Maybe this would be all right after all. Still, when it came to fashion--

“I’m not really sure,” they managed. 

“That’s okay! Let’s go take a look. I’ll pull some different styles so you can get an idea of what you like.”

“Is this really happening?” Rory whispered to Fiona as they followed the clerk across the store. 

Fiona laughed, and they couldn’t help laughing a little too. 

Soon the clerk came back with an armful of dresses. “Let’s take a look at these and see which you like. And of course we can alter the size and hemline once you’ve made a decision.”

Rory tried on several different dresses, and didn’t care for any of them, but they weren’t sure if they should say so. “What do you think?” they asked Fiona.

She shook her head. 

“That bad?”

“Oh, they look perfectly fine,” she reassured them. “Well, except that ballgown with the tulle, that one was really hideous. But none of these are right.”

“How can you tell?” they asked, relieved.

“Because you don’t look happy,” said Fiona, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Rory paused in the midst of trying to see the back of their current dress in the mirror. “No, that’s just how I look all the time.”

“It is _not_ ,’ said Fiona, with an affectionate eye roll. “I _can_ tell the difference, you know. You were happy when we were in the coffee shop. Not so much right now.”

They were so surprised they didn’t know how to respond, so finally they said, “You’re right. I don’t really like any of these.”

“Then let’s go somewhere else.”

 

Several hours later, after a journey deep into the heart of the Shopping District, Rory and Fiona took a taxicab back home, deciding that was easier than the trolley for accommodating the small heap of packages and shopping bags they’d acquired. 

Rory slumped back against the seat. “Shopping is exhausting,” they said, “both physically and emotionally. And that’s not even getting into the moral paradox of trying to make ethical consumer choices under an inherently unethical capitalist system.”

“Yes,” agreed Fiona uncertainly. “But you had fun though, right?”

Rory considered. The whirlwind of department stores and boutiques, trying on more items of clothing in one day than they had probably ever owned in their entire _life_ , Fiona somehow knowing the right questions to ask to nudge them in the direction of a style they actually liked.

“I did,” they said, and added, “Thanks.”

Fiona gave them a questioning glance. “It isn’t a big deal. It’s just shopping.”

Rory shook their head. It was more than that. “No, I mean--yes, thanks for coming with me, but not just that. When you talked me into going into that first shop and trying on wedding dresses--I never expected to actually be able to have that experience, and I never would have done it if you weren’t there. So I mean it--thank you.”

“I should thank you, too,” said Fiona. “For treating me like a friend instead of just your fiancé’s annoying little sister.”

Before they could respond, the taxicab had pulled up in front of their apartment. 

 

Inside, Fernald put on the tea kettle when he heard footsteps on the stairs, and was already taking teacups from the cupboard when the door opened. 

“Welcome back,” he called from the kitchen. “Tea?”

“Yes, please!” said Fiona.

“Tea would be amazing,” said Rory. “I’ll be right there once I put away a few things.”

Fiona joined Fernald in the kitchen, took the tea tin he was struggling with, and opened it. 

“Thanks,” he said. “What did you do today?”

“We went shopping, and Rory got--some things, but you’re not allowed to see yet, and I got a dress for your wedding and learned about the patriarchy and--what are you smiling about?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” said Fernald, though he couldn’t stop grinning. He didn’t yet know how to articulate the feeling of simply being so happy after the long, miserable time he’d spent in Count Olaf’s troupe, when he had to keep his relationship with Rory a secret and had thought he’d never see his family again. “I’m glad you had a good time.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild underage drinking here

The next several days passed quickly, and Fernald scarcely saw either his sister or his fiancée outside of their morning meetings. Every morning, three of them gathered in the cafe below their apartment to share their progress on their respective lists before splitting up again. 

The previous day had involved visits to a bakery (Fernald, who was more knowledgeable about baking) and a florist (Rory, who had spent ages wandering through the satiny petals and glossy leaves of the different flower varieties, and Fiona, who had tried to persuade the florist to begin carrying mushrooms as well as the more traditional floral offerings.)

Now, the day before the wedding, the three of them congregated for one final meeting in the coffee shop. At the counter, Fernald ordered his usual tea, Rory asked for black coffee--and, to Fernald’s surprise, so did Fiona. 

“Stepfather will arrive in the city this evening,” said Fiona, once the three of them sat at their now-usual table. “Fernald, you’ll join him at his hotel tonight, while I stay over at your apartment.”

“Are you sure that’s really necessary?” asked Fernald. 

“It’s bad luck to see each other before the wedding,” Fiona warned him gravely. 

Fernald didn’t really believe that, he knew Rory definitely didn’t, and he suspected Fiona didn’t take the superstition very seriously herself, but he decided not to argue. He thought fleetingly of his promise not to leave again, but of course spending one night in a hotel in the same city wasn’t actually _leaving_. 

“Besides,” Fiona told him, “we have plans.”

 

That night, Fernald found himself roped into what was possibly the saddest impromptu bachelor party in the history of bachelor parties, given that it consisted only of himself and Arturo.

They sat and talked over beers in the hotel bar. 

“So you two are finally tying the knot, huh?” said Arturo, with a knowing grin.

“What do you mean, finally?” said Fernald. Although one could hardly say he’d been drinking to excess, the two beers he’d had were still two more than usual, and he was a little tipsy. “Wait, you mean…” It couldn’t be. He lowered his voice and whispered, “You mean, you _knew_?”

Arturo laughed. “Yeah, we all knew. But it seemed like the two of you wanted to keep it quiet.” His expression grew more sober. “Honestly, knowing Olaf, I can’t blame you.”

 

In Rory and Fernald’s apartment across the city, a slightly larger gathering was taking place. In the kitchen, Rory poured drinks for the occupants of the living room. Three glasses of merlot, and--

“Fiona,” they called, “what do you--oh, there you are,” they interrupted themselves as Fiona appeared in the kitchen doorway. “What would you like?”

“Whatever you’re having is fine.”

“But I’m drinking wine.”

“Actually,” Fiona began with uncharacteristic diffidence, “may I have a glass, too?”

Rory paused momentarily to consider. It wasn’t as if Fiona would be going anywhere, and their own parents had allowed them the occasional glass of wine when they were younger than she was now. Usually on special occasions, and they were pretty sure this counted. “Um...I guess that would probably be all right. But just one, okay?”

“Thanks. Here, let me help you carry those.” Fiona picked up two glasses of merlot, Rory took the other two, and they returned to the living room where Jenny and Elvira waited. 

 

“The two of you make a good couple,” said Arturo, giving Fernald a congratulatory clap on the shoulder, and took another drink of beer. He’d had several more than Fernald’s two. 

Fernald laughed. “I have to admit, I agree.”

“You know,” said Arturo, and now it was his turn to lean in and drop his voice conspiratorially, “when the rest of us left Mount Fraught, and you didn’t come with us, I really thought--” He paused and seemed to think better of whatever he’d been going to say. “Never mind. I’m glad it worked out in the end.”

The vague ominousness of Arturo’s unfinished sentence was enough to cut through the haze of alcohol. “Wait, what do you mean? What did you think?” Fernald demanded. It seemed so long ago now, but he still remembered the last moment he’d stood with the rest of the troupe at the summit of Mount Fraught. He’d laid his hook surreptitiously against Rory’s back as he’d leaned in to whisper: _Do what you need to. I’ll catch up soon, I promise_. Then he’d hurried away before he could see their reaction, because he knew that if he waited, if he didn’t turn away, he never would have been able to leave their side.

 

“This is so exciting,” said Jenny. “You and Fernald!”

“The first of our troupe to get married!” sighed Elvira.

“They are not,” corrected Jenny.

“Are too!”

“No, Arturo was married once.”

“Oh, he was not,” argued Elvira.

“He’s divorced, I’m sure of it,” insisted Jenny. 

“He’s never said any such thing,” Elvira contradicted.

“Either way,” said Jenny pointedly.

“Yes, either way,” agreed Elvira, “congratulations on being _possibly_ the first in the troupe to get married.”

“ _Definitely_ the first to get married to each other,” said Jenny, and this concession seemed to satisfy her twin. They looked at each other, nodded in unison, and then both turned to Rory expectantly. 

“Thank you,” said Rory. They took a drink of their wine. Fiona tried hers too, and grimaced, but they politely pretended not to notice. They hadn’t liked wine either, the first time they’d tried it.

“Are you nervous?” asked Fiona, curling up against the sofa cushions with her wine glass. “About tomorrow, I mean.”

Rory shook their head. “Not at all. I know it’s normal to have some doubts, but I really don’t.”

“Fernald is lucky you still--” began Jenny, but broke off when Elvira elbowed her with a significant look toward Fiona.

“--lucky to be marrying you,” finished Elvira. “ _Right_?”

“Right,” agreed Jenny.

“You’re talking about when your troupe split up, aren’t you?” asked Fiona. 

“No!” said the twins in unison.

“Yes,” said Rory, and told Jenny and Elvira, “It’s okay. She knows all about it. Besides, if Fernald had come with us, he never would have been able to help Fiona escape after Olaf captured the _Queequeg_.”

“Really!” said Jenny.

“How courageous!”

“How heroic!”

“And besides _that_ ,” added Rory, “he promised he’d come back, and I believed him, and he did.”

Fiona took another tiny sip of wine. “You know, when we were on the _Quequeeg_ , he talked about you every day.”

“For real?” 

“It’s true,” said Fiona. “And I know he didn’t want to let on in front of me and Stepfather, but I could tell he was really, really worried the whole time.”

Rory didn’t know how to respond. They’d known Fernald was a _little_ concerned, but-- “I don’t see why. I mean, sure, it totally sucked to have to descend the mountain and cross the Hinterlands on foot, but the whole troupe did it together--almost the whole troupe,” they corrected. “But we were never in any real danger.” They turned to Jenny and Elvira for confirmation.

When the twins exchanged a look instead of responding immediately, Rory went on, half to themselves, “Well, unless Olaf had come after us, or we’d encountered a swarm of snow gnats, or gotten caught in an avalanche, or run out of supplies, especially considering that we made a pretty spontaneous decision to leave, or--okay, now that I think about it, that was actually super dangerous.”

They set down their wine glass as the realization hit them. Fernald hadn’t been overreacting, they’d just been oblivious--again--to the actual danger they faced. Just like that night at Heimlich Hospital, when they’d gotten lost among the fleeing crowds and ended up exiting the wrong side of the hospital. It wasn’t until they stood outside and saw just how much of the building was engulfed in flames that they grasped just how close a call they’d had, and then it had hit them all at once. 

“We thought you were just determined to remain optimistic,” ventured Jenny.

“And keep up morale,” added Elvira.

“And challenge us to grow as individuals by discussing philosophy and morality.”

“It’s nice of you to think I did all that on purpose, or even by accident, but really, I was pretty clueless,” Rory admitted. And there it was--the doubt. Not about marrying Fernald; there was never any question about that. But after everything they’d put him through, they couldn’t help wondering--did they really deserve him?

 _Stop it_ , they told themselves sternly. That kind of thinking wouldn’t do any good. Besides, Fernald wouldn’t have said yes if he hadn’t meant it.

 

Arturo still hesitated, and Fernald was just drunk enough that he almost considered bringing out Fiona’s catchphrase. Almost.

“Just between us,” Arturo stipulated. “Don’t let Rory know I told you, but…” He paused, maddeningly, to take another swig of beer. “After we left and you didn’t, they were really devastated.”

“What? No! Really?” But he’d _told_ them. He’d promised. 

“Oh, they tried pretending like everything was fine, but, you know. They cried,” said Artruo, a bit reproachfully. “I think they really thought you were gone for good.”

“But--but--I made them _cry_?” said Fernald in dismay. He’d known how difficult and perilous his former coworkers’ journey would be, and the last thing he’d wanted was to heap any more distress on top of that. He should have left with them--but Sunny Baudelaire--but--

Maybe there hadn’t been an easy solution to his dilemma, but he’d made things even worse. How had they ever forgiven him after everything he’d done?

 

“Maybe I’ll get married someday, too,” said Jenny.

“Yes,” said Elvira. “Sometimes I think it would be nice to find a husband or a wife.”

“Me too,” said Jenny, “although I would prefer a husband myself.”

“I’m not sure if I will,” said Fiona slowly. “My stepfather sometimes says he expects that I’ll get married one day, and I suppose the idea sounds nice, but I’ve never really felt that way about anyone.” She looked up from her still nearly-full wine glass, her expression startlingly vulnerable. “Maybe there’s something wrong with me.”

“No!” said Jenny.

“Of course not,” said Elivra. “Besides, you’re still quite young.”

“You have plenty of time,” added Jenny.

“It’s true that sometimes it can take a while to figure these things out,” said Rory, “but also, there are some people who just don’t feel romantic attraction very much, or even at all, and that’s okay too.”

“Yes, we didn’t think of that,” agreed Jenny, “but--”

“--that’s also a possibility,” finished Elvira. 

“Thanks,” said Fiona. “That makes me feel better.”

 

At Arturo’s urging, Fernald had had another beer. In retrospect, this decision may have been a mistake, because he was now leaning heavily against Arturo and trying to blink back tears. 

“I just love them _so much_ , you know? It’s--it’s just--you _know_?” Fernald wasn’t sure that he was articulating his feelings properly. 

Arturo patted him soothingly on the shoulder. “Sure, buddy, I know.”

Fernald wiped his eyes with his sleeve, not very effectively. Arturo offered him a paper cocktail napkin. “They don’t know. They probably think--I have to go home,” said Fernald. “I have to tell them.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not _that_ drunk,” protested Fernald. 

“You’re drunk enough that you’re crying over your fiancée, who loves you and is going to marry you tomorrow,” said Arturo firmly. “I doubt anything will change that.”

“But--”

“Look,” said Arturo, “if you really want to talk to Rory right now, I’ve got a better idea.”

 

“Well, _my_ ideal spouse would be another actor,” said Jenny. “On the stage, or even in the movies.”

“I’d rather have someone in a different profession,” said Elvira. “Maybe a small business owner, who’s involved in the local community.”

“Like a greengrocer, or a mortician,” suggested Jenny.

“Exactly.”

“You’ve been very quiet,” said Fiona to Rory as the twins continued to list off the qualities of their potential partners. “Is anything wrong?”

“No,” they said quickly. “No, I was just thinking about your brother.”

“And that made you sad?” 

“I’m not sad,” insisted Rory.

“You look a little bit contemplative,” Jenny chimed in.

“And you sound a little melancholy,” said Elvira. 

“So maybe _sad_ isn’t the right word,” said Fiona, “but what’s up?”

So much for suppressing all those intrusive thoughts. Not that it had been working so well anyway. “I was just thinking of Fernald,” Rory admitted, “and how I probably don’t deserve him, and he’ll realize it before tomorrow and back out, and--” They gestured to indicate the futility of carrying on with this catastrophic spiral.

“Nonsense!” said Jenny.

“Not a chance of it,” added Elvira. 

“Maybe it’s presumptuous of me to think I have anything to add here,” began Fiona, “but I know my brother, and I know he loves you. And you love him.”

“More than anything,” said Rory.

“So that’s that,” said Fiona. “If you want my opinion, the two of you are perfect for each other.”

At that moment, the telephone rang. 

 

“Hello?” 

“Sweetheart,” said Fernald, and his voice broke. He leaned against the wall of the phone booth in relief. “I love you. I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” said Rory, sounding a little puzzled. “Are you okay? You sound…”

“We had a few drinks,” admitted Fernald, “and--and I was thinking about you, a lot. And I just wanted to hear your voice.”

There was a brief pause, then Rory said, quietly, “It’s nice to hear you, too.” 

For a moment, they both were silent, as if each of them were realizing that they’d been a bit silly and gotten worked up over nothing. 

“See you in the morning, then?” asked Rory finally.

“Absolutely.”


	11. Chapter 11

Fernald paced nervously in the hotel lobby, back and forth in front of the French windows that led into the small private garden. Walled in on all sides, it was a hidden oasis in the midst of the city’s Shipping District. One would never guess just how close it lay to the grimy, fishy clamor of the wharves, although it was, in fact, quite close as the crow (or in this case, seagull) flies.

The seagulls were not the problem. In reality, there was no problem; Fernald was merely impatient, waiting for Rory and Fiona to arrive. Which they would, of course--any minute. At this point, it would be absurd to worry otherwise, so Fernald only worried a tiny bit. 

According to the large, ornate wall clock, it was still fifteen minutes before the official start time. They’d decided against a traditional procession; he and Rory would walk in together. Provided that they actually showed up, of course. ( _Stop that at once_ , he admonished himself.)

Once again, Fernald moved aside the edge of the curtain to steal a glance out into the garden. All of the guests had gathered outside already--half of whom he’d be meeting for the first time today. Rory’s family had only just arrived back in the city late the previous night, returning from their vacation in the Egyptian desert. He was reasonably sure that the small, dark-haired woman in the tailored suit was Rory’s sister, but couldn’t guess which of the three older women were their parents and which was their girlfriend, the Duchess. He didn’t know how he’d expected a member of the nobility to look. Just like a regular person, probably, only wealthier.

He tried to take a deep breath. He was getting married in front of _the Duchess of New York_ and he’d never even met her. 

More to the point, he was _getting married_.

“Fernald,” said Fiona, and he whirled around. His sister was alone, and looked astoundingly grown up in a formal gown of dark blue satin. 

“Fiona,” he said in shock. “You--God, I’m getting old.”

“What a charming compliment,” said Fiona.

“No, I’m sorry, you look very nice,” said Fernald. “It’s only--the whole time I was gone, I suppose I still thought of you as a little girl, the way you were before I left, but you’re not. You’re nearly an adult, and it just struck me how much time has passed--how much of your life I’ve missed.” His speech faltered by the end, and he couldn’t help getting emotional. 

“Don’t you dare cry,” said Fiona fiercely, even though she was near tears herself. “You’re allowed to cry when you see Rory, but not me.”

Fernald nodded, and quickly pulled himself together. “You’re right. Speaking of, where are they?”

“In the billiard room, around the corner there,” said Fiona. “They wanted me to ask you to come in.”

Fernald nodded. “I don’t know how to thank you for everything. I--it’s--” Words failed him, and he hugged his sister. “I love you,” he told her. 

“I love you, too. Now go on,” she said. “Your fiancée is waiting. I’ll see you outside.”

He made his way across the lobby and into the hallway. As he rounded the corner, his heartbeat sped up.

Fernald stepped through the doorway, and finally found himself face to face with Rory. They wore an old-fashioned, modest dress of tea-stained lace and a gauzy shawl in a shade of dusty lavender that matched the blossoms in their flower crown. More importantly, their face lit up with a smile the moment he entered the room.

Fernald thought they looked beautiful.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

“And you look very handsome.” Rory reached out to rest a hand on his arm, experimentally stroking the charcoal gray material of his suit jacket. “This is nice.”

“Is everything okay?” asked Fernald.

“Yeah,” said Rory. “I was just nervous and I wanted to see you. By ourselves, I mean, before it all started.”

“I’m nervous too,” admitted Fernald. “Or I was, anyway.”

“Not anymore?” asked Rory.

“Not anymore.” He stepped forward, taking them into his arms and holding them close. For a moment, he wished the two of them could stay that way indefinitely, just the two of them holding each other, so close they could feel one another’s heartbeats.

“I suppose we shouldn’t keep everyone waiting,” said Rory eventually.

“I suppose not.”

“They who hesitate are lost, right?”

“Let’s do this,” said Fernald. 

The two of them crossed the lobby, opened the French windows, and stepped outside together.


	12. Chapter 12

As soon as Rory and Fernald entered the garden, a hush fell over the guests. As if by instinct, they all moved aside, forming a clearing around the judge who stood beneath a large dogwood tree. It was too early for blossoms, but its emerging buds gave the impression of a faint green mist overhead. 

Neither of them felt comfortable with elaborate, emotional vows in front of others, so the simple legal ceremony was completed quickly, the explanatory document signed. Then it was time to exchange rings. Fernald produced a small jewelry box, opened it with only minor difficulty, and offered it to Rory. 

For a moment, he was stung by the feeling of loss, of missing out on something important, because he was not able to physically place the ring on their finger, although he knew it was only symbolic. But that feeling faded almost entirely when he saw their awed expression as they took from the box a ring set with a large opal. The gemstone sparkled with iridescent fire as they tilted their hand this way and that. 

“I had it reset from my mother’s ring,” Fernald explained quietly, “from her first marriage to my father.” 

“I don’t know what to say. That’s--beautiful.” 

At first, Fernald wasn’t sure if they meant the jewelry itself or the gesture, but the tears shining in their eyes told him it was both. 

Then Rory seemed to remember that it was their turn. “This isn’t anywhere near as good as yours,” they said, “but here.”

They presented Fernald with a plain gold wedding band on a chain. “So you can wear it, um, you know...close to your heart.” The end of the sentence was mumbled almost inaudibly, and Rory couldn’t quite meet Fernald’s eyes, so he knew they meant it with such absolute sincerity that they were embarrassed to admit it. “Is that okay?”

“More than okay,” said Fernald, and now he too began to tear up as they fastened the chain around his neck. “This is perfect.”

“You are now legally wed,” announced the judge. 

Fernald felt that he was practically glowing with joy, but suddenly he realized the crowd was unusually silent, almost...expectant? Had he forgotten something? The judge, the document, the rings--

Then Rory kissed him, and the heavy silence broke as the guests began to applaud. 

At that point, both of them realized they had no idea what to do next. Luckily, neither of them actually had to do anything, because the guests now converged upon them with congratulations and hugs (for Fernald) and somewhat less demonstrative gestures of affection (for Rory). 

Waiters from the hotel circulated unobtrusively with glasses of champagne and trays of petits fours, and Fernald found that a few sips of champagne did wonders for his nerves as Rory introduced him to their family.

Their sister, despite her unenthused appearance, greeted Fernald, if not warmly, then at least graciously. It turned out that the tall woman in the pantsuit was their mother, the even taller woman in the formal gown was their other mother, and the elegant woman of average height in the brightly patterned robe and headscarf turned out to be the Duchess, who insisted on being called by her first name instead of _Your Grace_. 

 

Around the corner of the hotel, behind a strategically placed hedge, Rory leaned back against the wall and breathed a sigh of relief. Although it was only a small gathering of people they knew well, they’d still needed a moment of quiet. Alone, they could simply breathe and gather their thoughts. Foremost among their current thoughts was the unbelievable good fortune they’d had to marry someone who not only didn’t mind--not only _understood_ \-- but in fact had actually encouraged them to go take a moment to themselves. 

They closed their eyes and breathed deeply, letting the tension ebb away. It was peaceful back here; distance and the barrier of the hedge muffled the noise of the party to a quiet chatter interspersed with the occasional clink of glasses. 

Then, the quiet was disrupted by footsteps and the rustle of branches being pushed aside, and Rory found themselves face to face with Fiona. 

“Oh!” exclaimed Fiona in surprise. “I didn’t know you were back here. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“No, it’s okay,” said Rory. “Please stay.”

She joined them against the wall. “I just wanted to get away, and this seemed like a good spot.”

“It is,” said Rory. “Is anything the matter?”

Fiona shook her head. “It’s probably stupid because it’s such a small crowd, but I hardly know anyone, and it just got to be a little too much for me.”

“I totally understand.”

For a time, the two of them stood together in silence before Fiona spoke. 

“I’m really glad to have you as my sibling.”

“Me too,” said Rory. 

“Can I--can I hug you?” asked Fiona. “If not, it’s okay,” she said quickly. “I only just noticed now that people don’t, and it didn’t occur to me before that you might not like it.”

“It’s okay,” said Rory. “You’re right that I generally don’t, but with some people, I don’t mind.” They added, a little flustered, “You, um, you don’t have to ask. Just don’t, like, sneak up on me with it, okay?”

Then Fiona did begin to cry, but threw her arms around Rory before they could say anything else, so they decided it must not be a bad kind of crying. 

As the two of them began to make their way back to the rest of the guests, Fernald came around the corner of the building.

“This is turning into a popular spot,” said Rory. 

“I’ll see you both later,” said Fiona, and slipped away to rejoin the other guests. 

The moment Fiona was out of sight, Rory pulled Fernald back behind the hedge for a very intense kiss. 

He was a bit dazed for a moment, then recovered enough to ask, “Not that I’m complaining, but what was that for?”

“Do I need a reason to kiss my own husband?” asked Rory. “Unless you don’t want me to, of course,” they added seriously. 

“Of course I want you to,” said Fernald. He leaned in closer, dropping his voice, and murmured, “In fact, I can think of all kinds of things I want you to do.”

It took Rory a moment to recover from that, and even when they did, they responded with touch rather than words, running their hands up Fernald’s arms, over his chest, trailing a finger along his jaw. 

“You know how hot you look wearing that suit?” they said finally.

“I guess I made the right decision, then,” joked Fernald. “It was a hard choice between this and my ‘sailor suit,’ as you call it.”

“You wouldn’t have,” said Rory in disbelief.

“Of course not, love, but some people do like a man in uniform, you know.”

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste, is there?” they said, so deliberately ambiguous that Fernald couldn’t help laughing. 

“Speaking of uniforms,” he said, “I don’t suppose you still have…?”

“That dress?” said Rory. “Of course I do. I know what happens when I wear it.”

“I think,” said Fernald significantly, “it might be just about time to go home.”


	13. Chapter 13

“Give me a minute,” said Rory, and disappeared into the bedroom. Fernald knew what they were doing, but he didn’t want to wait. Although the anticipation was nice, there was something to be said for immediate gratification as well. He and Rory hadn’t been properly alone since right after his return, and he still wanted them desperately. Once again, he couldn’t stop himself imagining what Rory had done in his absence, and the thought made him even more impatient. 

Briefly, he considered simply asking to watch as they touched themselves--no. While the idea was appealing, right now he needed more direct participation. 

Then the bedroom door opened, and Rory stood there wearing _that_ dress, their nurse uniform that he’d come to have _very_ strong feelings about. His intention had been to grab them and kiss them as soon as they emerged, but there were so many things he wanted, so many competing desires, that he could only stand there staring helplessly.

Finally, Rory asked, “Did I put this dress on for no reason, or are you going to fuck me?”

That snapped him out of it. “All right, love, you asked for it,” he murmured, and kissed them hard. Soon, they were grabbing his ass, trying to pull his hips closer to theirs, and made a sound of disappointment when he stepped back. 

Fernald hurriedly undressed, and Rory retrieved the items they’d laid out on the bed. Their breathing grew quicker as they helped him put on a strap-on, and applied a generous amount of lube.

They leaned in to kiss him again, but instead, Fernald caught them by the shoulders, turned them around, and bent them over the bed. He flipped up the hem of their skirt, exposing them, and noted with approval that they hadn’t even bothered with underwear. Appreciatively, he stroked their ass before ordering, “Stay like that. I want to watch--give me a show.”

Rory’s breath caught. “Yes, sir,” they whispered. 

Without moving from their position, they reached back and slowly began to trace their lubed fingers over their asshole, sighing and shifting against the bed as they began to work them inside. Fernald groaned softly--watching this was almost too much for him to take, but he’d asked for it. 

When Rory reached for their cock with their other hand, Fernald said sharply, “I didn’t say you could touch yourself there yet.” They gave a whimper, but desisted, and Fernald got completely caught up in watching as they fingered themselves, slowly at first, then more and more desperately. 

“You know how often I did this while you were gone?” they panted. “How many times I fucked myself with my hand like this, thinking of you?”

He couldn’t answer, couldn’t speak. 

“Sometimes I used toys, too,” they confessed, and gasped as they thrust their fingers deeper.

“That’s enough,” ordered Fernald. “It’s my turn.” He stepped forward and eased the tip of his strap-on into them.

“More,” they pleaded. 

“Do you think you deserve more?” 

“Oh god--please.” They pushed their hips back against him insistently, and he thrust into them further, rewarded with their cry. He ran his wrists up over their waist, over their back, anywhere that was still covered by the sturdy material of their uniform. 

“You’ve been a naughty nurse, haven’t you?”

They took a shuddering breath. “Yes, doctor.”

He circled his arms around their chest, rubbing their breasts through the cloth as he thrust into them. “I think you need some--discipline,” he told them. “Or maybe a good fucking will help you concentrate on your job.”

Another shudder, another whimper, before they managed to reply again, “Yes, doctor. Please _help_ me.”

Although there were many things about this scenario that might have been different in an ideal world, Fernald reflected, one advantage to using a strap-on here was that he was able to focus on their reactions--reactions that he was causing. He kept moving, holding them close to him, kissing their neck, biting down lightly. They gasped, shaking in his arms. 

“ _Please_.” Rory grabbed his wrist, guiding his arm down, lifting their skirt. Fernald had to lean forward a little, the position slightly awkward, but then both of them were touching Rory’s erect cock. They thrust against Fernald’s arm and their own hand, crying out, until they seemed to freeze. He held them tightly with his free arm as they came hard, practically collapsing in his arms afterwards, and the two lowered themselves to the mattress, breathing heavily. 

“All right, love?” asked Fernald presently. 

“Yes. Give me a second--I’m not done with you yet.” Rory turned over and made quick work of removing Fernald’s strap-on. Their fingers traced invisible patterns on the inside of his thigh as they reached for the lube again.

“Is this okay?” they asked, glancing down, gesturing higher, and Fernald could only nod. He needed this, badly, and before long, they had two fingers in his pussy and two in his ass. He couldn’t think about anything else as they fingered him roughly, filling him completely. They kissed him, adding to the overwhelming combination, and when they began to stroke his clit with their thumb, that pushed him over the edge almost at once. Rory held him close and kept kissing him as he shuddered with his release. 

Afterward, for a time, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. Instead, they held each other close, for the moment simply content with one another’s presence. 

Finally, Rory broke the silence, nuzzling Fernald’s cheek and murmuring, “Love you.”

“I love you too,” he said, snuggling against their chest. He went on, voicing a promise half to them and half to himself, “And neither of us is going anywhere.”


End file.
